


the sweetest romance in all the world

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Affection, Angst, F/M, Gen, Goodbyes, Introspection, Realizations, what-ifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Ciel and Lizzy always talk but this is their one true dialogue.After all, he's got a mouth like unswept glass but she's always been difficult to bruise.(Ciel POV)





	the sweetest romance in all the world

“She has a mouth like unswept glass—when you least expect it, she cuts you.” — Junot Diaz, _Otravida, Otravez_

 

* * *

  

“Can’t you see,” Ciel says, “I’m not trying to find peace. I will cling onto hate for as long as I can because I’m destined to die anyway. I’ve no soul left. I’ve nothing to give.”

Lizzy opens her mouth to speak but Ciel continues, interrupting her with breathless insistence.

“Don’t try to trap me in a fiction Lizzy. I’m not one for comfort or illusion—the simple fact is, you can’t give salvation to one who has no desire to _be_ saved. I am filled with ill will and only tolerate you for the simple sake of formality.”

“Then be cruel,” she interrupts with eyes as wide and green as the Sargasso Sea, “experience and live and attach everyone to you. Pretend you care and when you die, leave behind a trail of broken hearts because isn’t _that_ the truest form of cruelty? To not care for others? You don’t want anyone to love or care for you so you cloak yourself in hate and hope that when the time comes, we won’t miss a bitter, broken boy. But you’re _wrong._ If you were half so hateful—if you truly despised us all—then you would live and love and _pretend._ You would pretend while some silent commentary plays inside you, laughing at our blind stupidity because you know the world is made of glass and you’re the only one with the bullet capable of shattering the whole thing.” She takes a breath, cheeks pink, because never before has she given such a speech in her fourteen years of life.

Ciel simply stares at her with something akin to wonder, a strange feeling of anxious panic mingling with pure, unadulterated grief. Grief because how on _earth_ did his silly, frivolous golden haired cousin manage to become so wise? It was disconcerting and foolish for her to suddenly see into his mind and the poignancy of her speech becomes lost when it collides with the unshakable, unbreakable wall of black hate that guards the abyss of his heart. He returns her gaze with cool apathy, neither of them willing to back down because they _know_ —

This tete-a-tete means so much more than a simple victory.

Their eyes collide with a force that physically takes Ciel’s breath away and he desperately tries to keep his head above water—to tread water as best he can—but Elizabeth is a hurricane and a summer storm and she capsizes his every thought when she reaches out, one lace gloved hand coming to touch his elbow, shattering his reserve until suddenly—he is sinking, sinking, sinking.

The seas are quiet and Lizzy’s eyes are soft and part of him hates her for being so lovely.

“You’re a terror.” He manages to whisper, not quite still but trapped—entombed in a stasis of contraband emotion that is not his take. Thief, liar, crook—oh he’ll easily abandon these titles when the time suits him and right now, he wants to be honorable and good and get away from this slavish drive towards _sentiment._ “Lizzy—“

“You weren’t going to let me say goodbye, were you?” She asks plainly, expressing more thought in these words than she’s had her entire life.

He shrugs. “I didn’t think you’d care. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be lonely for long.”

“So you think I’m fickle, do you?”

“No.” If anything, she’s loyal— _too_ loyal—always with her palm outstretched, offering Ciel the hope he will continually shun in favor of winter’s discontent.

He takes a shallow breath and offers up a pearl of _something_ —after all, he owes her this much. “I think you’re sweet.” He manages.

She doesn’t respond (and he doesn’t blame her—his veracity is blunt and crude and ugly to look upon). Ciel feels ten inches tall and wonders when— _if_ —the white light will take him. “Be indulgent,” she suddenly whispers, one hand coming to trace his cheek, “and tell me one truth. Just one. And then I’ll step away. _I promise._ ”

Ciel bites the inside of his cheek, half in fury as his heartbeat thrashes against his bony chest. The smallest (almost inconsequential) part of him screams for her to hold on, to not give up, to please, _please_ stay.

But he is a man of reason. A rational gambler, if he might use that title.

So he takes her gamble.

“I’ll tell you anything.” Ciel offers as he stands before these unfamiliar caryatids—statues of truth and honesty, half-wondering what cruel providence might seek to extract from his parchment soul today.

And Lizzy, sensing Ciel’s hesitation, looks as if she’s been slapped. She drops her hand from his cheek and they both know their stasis has fallen, shattering into a million pieces as Ciel prepares to relinquish his last lodestar.

And she, in turn, fixes a smile on her pretty face, pale pink lips stretched in a smile that _almost_ appears genuine.

She asks him about the weather.

It’s so mundane a question that Ciel can’t help but give her a wholly truthful answer—

“It’s wretched these days.” He admits, and whether or not Lizzy understands the full weight of his words is up for debate but _truly,_ it’s all he can spare. All he can give in this state but _this_ is all he knows. This moral myopia that has become his lifeline.

“Shall we get some ice cream Ciel?” She asks and waits for him to offer his arm. 

He hesitates. “Perhaps some other time.” (And there is something strangely inexplicable about the way he says this but—) “I’ve reports to file and her majesty has tasked me with a new investigation. I’ll be in Sunderland until next Friday.” He has become very good at feigning normalcy—has perfected the act.

He knows she’ll see right through it.

Standing before him, Lizzy wants to say something blunt—he can tell. She wants to say something rash and impulsive but her lessons with Aunt Frances must be wondrous because Lizzy schools her face into a pleasant look, lower lip trembling only the _slightest_ bit and even then, Ciel feels nothing.

He keeps his eyes fixed on her shoulder. “I could take you to the theater when I return—“

“No, that’s quite alright.” She rebukes. “I wish you a safe and swift journey.” Her words are pearls shaded the softest pink—they are a _blessing,_ the most beautiful prayer Ciel has ever heard and he thinks (he _knows_ ) that his bright beautiful Lizzy will be alright.

Taking her hand he raises it to a kiss, lips softly pressing against her lace-gloved palm.“As I you.” He murmurs, unconsciously breathing in the scent of her perfume—strawberries, daisies, and _sunshine._

When did his Lizzy grow up?

“Goodbye Ciel.” She murmurs, sounding so sad and lost that he can’t help himself. He looks up, right into her eyes, fringed with long dark lashes that almost seem out of place on such a young, childish face.

He expects a revelation to hit him—some sort of grand, ecclesiastical discovery to take hold—but the poetry never comes. Ciel instead looks into eyes the color of rolling Irish hills and is tempted—so tempted—by this moment of _almost_ and _wait for me_ and _Lizzy, please don’t…_

Yet these feelings are half-formed, barely acknowledged, and are overwhelmed just as quickly by apology, guilt, and a hint of grave acceptance. He is, after all, a condemned boy, doomed in every sense of the word, and those bound for hell can’t possibly bring joy to another’s life.

Because, in the end, it’s all so heartachingly simple.

Ciel decides (and it is so very, very rare for him to decide anything anymore) to pour his childhood in this butterfly girl. He moves closer ( _carefully_ though, always careful—Lizzy burns hot like the sun and if he is Icarus, he can’t afford to lose his wings) to kiss her cheek. A brief, too quick kiss that is nothing more than lips against skin but Ciel feels the flutter of her heartbeat, hears the sharp intake of breath, and can’t deny that his own mouth feels a little numb from the fire burning beneath her creamy skin.

They look at each other—him a few inches shorter (even in heels) and her, tearstained and lovely.

“I’ll see you soon Lizzy.”

“Goodbye Ciel.” She repeats and for a minute, he reconsiders it all—reconsiders this whole thrice-damned deal. Allows for a split second to wonder what it’d be like.

To hold her and love her and be selfish together—running away to Pesaro or Bisceglie or Ferrara—and loving one another in secret. He would have her hold him as he clumsily breathed out the fragmented truth, inhaling the warmth of her olive-scented skin made sweet by Roman peaches and soft cinnamon. He considers all of this—of children and laughter and moonlit nights where the only goodbye would be when they would close their eyes to sleep and their first hello would be each other, fresh and lovely as the risen dawn.

And in a fit of wild, thoughtless passion he moves closer, lips like unswept glass, holding himself together with hesitant maybes.

But she is gone before he can solidify that thought fully and he knows the world is too cruel to have let it last. Lizzy gave him _years_ and still, he wants just a _little bit more._ It is in silence that he watches her depart, silk and satin skirts rustling as she walks out the door and into the March gloom, and briefly—very briefly—gives himself a soft reprieve.

 _Goodbye_ , he thinks, _goodbye Lizzy._

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I just really, really want my babies to get catharsis and this seems like the most plausible method. (Except, ya know, now we've got twins but I wrote this before the 2CT confirmation so - eh...it ~kinda~ works? XD) 
> 
> Oh and happy holidays everyone! ♡


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